Bramblepoint o achilles,

tvar's gruff face changes from harsher to curious as the stranger introduces himself.

dracarys.

a word from the old country, from the mountains and stone-winds he hasn’t tasted in years. a word that belonged to the royal family of greymarch and stories spoken around winter dens, and one he wasn't expecting to hear from the wolf standing before him in bramblepoint.

dracarys, the name, and word, sounds odd on his tongue; now, his accent an amalgamation of his northern roots and the southern he had taken to after months spent at the side of @Cole. haven't heard that in years. his lips connect stiffly.

he flicks an ear, giving the boy at his side a quick sweep of comfort before answering the stranger’s question.

just us, he says. been that way a while. but we get by. winter'll be no problem; i was raised where the snowfall was endless. tvar huffs in response, though doesn't seem too keen on speaking of his past. and in response, falk shifts awkwardly at his side, all gangly legs and cautious gawking at the large man of sand colored fur.

'm tvar. this is my boy, falcon.